Sincerity is Absolutely Fatal {Fledger, Day Two}

Fledger Rells

My heart is beating from me
I am standing all alone
Please call me only if you are coming home.

He didn't remember sleeping, or even waking up, but he knew that at some point he must have managed to forget who he was, and where, and settle into the blood-soft surrender of sand. If he had dreamed, it must have been no better than reality, for nothing stood out as strange in his mind. His reality was not a waking world, nor a sleeping one. It was trapped and in-between, a hopeless shade of gray. Even now, as he faced a world of color and sun, Fledger was quite dull and colorless.

The night before, he'd collapsed on the ever-shifting sand after running for an amount of time he dared not guess at. His face pressed against the grit, blood began to drain from his body, matching the hue of the ground beneath him. For a long while, he didn't move or think, just counted the number of times his lungs pulled in another breath. Somewhere around seven thousand, he sat up, looked around, and decided to stop. After throwing off his bag, he'd rummaged through it, searching for something useful. he could barely remember now what it was he'd thrown in there during the Bloodbath. When he found the socks, flecked with dark spots of dried blood, and a bandanna that was purely black, he set the bag on the ground beside him. The socks he put on his right arm - or what was left of it. It wouldn't do much to stop the bleeding, but it would keep the sand out, at least. After some difficulty, he managed to knot the bandanna around his arm, just above the elastic of the socks. Below the socks was nothing. Just an expanse of air that served no purpose to him. He was missing an essential part of himself. It had been removed with ease, tossed away and forgotten. Maybe it was better this way.

Throughout the night, as black thoughts clawed at his mind, Fledger fought himself for memories. Already River's face was beginning to blur in his mind, Brooke's laugh becoming nothing but a distant echo. The harder he tried to recall the details of their faces, the faster they slipped away from him. Eyes squeezed shut, brows scrunched together, he tried to hold inside the small fragments that were left. He needed their faces, their voices, constantly reminding him what he was fighting for, and who he was. His left hand clasped around the anchor hanging by a leather cord about his neck. It had been his father's long ago, and Fledger had claimed it for himself after he'd passed. He'd acted as if his father had meant so much to him, but the truth hit him now, bursting through the seams he'd stitched tight across his chest.

His father had taken a knife and driven it deep into his soul. For years, Fledger had clung to the hope that his father really loved and cared for him. It had always been clear that Fledger wasn't enough, that he wasn't what his father had wanted. If he was enough, why would Mr. Rells give all his attention to Theron instead? If Fledger had been the son he'd always wanted, why did hos father not sped time with him the way he did Theron? Though Fledger was the elder sibling, he'd been forced to live his life in Theron's shadow. For whatever reason, he wasn't good enough for his father in any way. When his father had died and Theron had run away, Fledger was all that was left. He had to hold his mother together as she slowly fell apart, keep her safe and fed. He'd liked being needed, so he sought out others that needed help, people that had to be fixed and needed a hand to hold. He'd surrounded himself with people that needed him, so he'd never have to feel unloved and unwanted again.

He understood, in some small way, how Theron felt. Theron had always belonged and once he returned home, he was the outsider. It was no wonder Theron hated him and River. He'd come home only to find that his brother had effectively filled in the holes he'd left behind. Though Theron never spoke of it, Fledger knew some of what Theron had gone through those years he'd been gone. Fledger had no idea what happened to him, but he woke sometimes to hear Theron screaming a name, sometimes Desiree, sometimes Milo, and once, an inexplicable, "Enigma!" Fledger didn't know the horror or the faces, but he knew the names. He knew what could induce such dreams, and he pretended that he cared.

All these years, he'd been pretending. He was so good at it, he;d even managed to convince himself that the lie was the truth. He was a nice guy, someone who listened to other people's problems and genuinely cared, offering up solutions and advice. Perfect, a person capable of overcoming any obstacle. But there were times when his mask slipped. When he sunk to his knees in the middle of a sea of crashing waves, letting them swallow him whole. Moments when he lay alone in the dark, staring up at a valley of black, that he drew in a breath so sharply, it caused a pain in his lungs. The day he'd crashed against the counter tops at the stark realization that he'd pulled someone else too completely into this mess. He'd known, at some point, that the fake him would fall in love with someone all too real, and that he'd have to break her heart. There was no way a person could live with such a lie for their entire life. Those months he'd spent drowning himself in liquor bottles without her, he'd forced the truth to come out. He tried it on, searched for something similar and lovable. In the end, he'd decided he was fine with the lie. The lie was his life now. It was all he knew.

Fledger had convinced himself that he was happy. That he wasn't a lie, just a different person. That happened, didn't it? People changed all the time, so why couldn't he? Here, in the arena, people changed the most of all. The true colors of their souls were bared to the world. All the fear, ugliness, and hate came to the surface. Some people tried to swallow it down, burn it up. But the truth was the same for everyone. It didn't always happen at the same time, but at some point, they would all start to unravel. No one, not even the Victor, came out of the arena the same way they came in. Fledger could pretend, just as he always had. He could be sane and reasonable, well-liked by the others. He could be the boy fighting to get home to his fiance, his child, and his brother.

But the truth was this: Fledger was a selfish person. He was the definition of greed. He'd seen the boy from Twelve drop dead. He'd killed the girl from his own district. Even if he'd wanted to, Fledger wouldn't have been able to hide anymore. They'd cut off his goddamned arm. How could you pretend with that evidence staring at you hour after hour, reminding you what had happened? So Fledger swallowed it up. He swallowed up all the reasons he'd had before, the promises of coming home. He had his own reasons now, ones that made more sense in his current situation. No longer would he fight to win, to get home. Now, he was fighting for blood. Vengeance for the arm he'd lost. Maybe he'd already gotten it, from the two legs he'd detached from body, but he didn't care. All he wanted was more blood. He wanted to see what he could do. Mostly, he wanted the freedom to act however he wanted, without worrying about how it made it look to others. He was fighting for himself now. No one else mattered.

Sunlight fell over the sand, reminding Fledger what was coming today. More blood today, more fights. For now, he didn't care about River and what she thought. She wasn't here, and she never would be, not in this arena. If he came home, he'd deal with her then. She wouldn't understand, and he knew that. She wouldn't be able to accept who he was now, who he'd always been. A sick, sweet smile fell across Fledger's face. Even when he looked down at the stump that was his arm, it didn't leave his face. This gorgeous world of sand and scarlet would keep him breathing. No matter what the other tributes threw at him, he'd remain standing. If there was one thing Fledger was and always had been, it was strong. He knew how to take care of himself. He knew how to stop himself from hurting, and how to act like he didn't care. Through the pain, he'd keep fighting. For his own selfish reasons, he'd live on. He'd find the bitch that took his arm, and he'd make her regret it.

But first, he needed food.

((Fledger has left the Falling Sands))